


The Response

by Framlingem



Category: Norse Religion & Lore
Genre: Bravery, Gen, Ottawa - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-14
Updated: 2016-07-14
Packaged: 2018-07-23 22:30:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7482432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Framlingem/pseuds/Framlingem
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In October of 2014, a Valkyrie visits Ottawa to take someone to Valhalla.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Response

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Zdenka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zdenka/gifts).



> With many thanks to Doranwen and Kaesa for the encouragement, and to shadow-lover for the speedy beta.
> 
> Happy NPT, Zdenka! Though I wish you a happy time, this is not a happy fic. I've been told to suggest tissues. I'm sorry!

The Response

 

               From above, the city is peaceful. It sits at the intersection of great roads and clings to the south-western shore of river; another city mirrors it on the north-eastern shore. The Valkyrie reins in her horse and circles down to the city’s heart. Stands of trees create flashes of orange and red here and there amongst the green of lawns and coppered rooftops. The river is blue. The sky is blue. It is not the kind of place she visits often. She spurs her horse further down, faster, peering at the people below: scholars in blue jeans and backpacks, statesmen-and-women in suits, visitors from distant lands in large groups led by locals carrying signs. She is pulled to the west; near a park the people of this city have built a long, low structure, blazing white and glass-fronted, and filled it with weaponry and the sagas of the dead, worthy and unworthy both. It calls to her. To the west, long lawns and buildings in the style of another land: an open palace, not a castle. In front of them, burning water. How odd. She turns towards —

               _There_. A young man from a city both foreign and familiar to the residents of this one. He carries a weapon. His purpose burns in his heart. He believes himself to be a warrior. He is not. No warrior with honour would cover his face in this land of barefaced, unarmoured people. She spits, _pah_ , but follows him anyway. He moves along the canal, hurried and tense. The set of his shoulders is fearful. His footfalls are resolute. He is _wrong_ somehow.

               She wants to sing as she is used to doing, to carol her way into a fray, her horse’s hooves providing a drumbeat for the music she makes with her sisters. Somehow her sisters have not come, and there is none of the glorious stretch of muscle or gleam of well-smithed metal that accompanies even the most terrible of bloodfields. The weapon this young man carries is brute-black, with no art to it. He carries it gracelessly towards —

               _There._ Towards a place where, across from yet another glass palace, white steps rise towards a white granite arch and a collection of bronze soldiers. In front of them is another man, standing vigil. This one is barefaced, even younger than the first man. They are all young, the Valkyrie reflects. She, of course, is ageless. His hat sits jauntily on his head, his kilt hangs straight to his knees, and his weapon,  though just as black and brutish, is held with grace in white-gloved hands, aimed skywards.

               A bang, and he falls. The first man stands still for a moment, perhaps stunned by the force of his weapon, perhaps awed by it. The Valkyrie does not know which, and she does not care. She is not here for him, and she does not watch as he flees towards the place with the burning water. In front of the arch, there are screams, and a man falling, and blood bright red on the white granite steps by the marker over an empty grave. The soldiers on the monument are bronze and still. The soldier on the ground is flesh and still. His stockings are red and white, a splash of brightness. The Valkyrie hears a noise, and looks towards —

               _There._ Peaceful people, out for a walk on a bright and cloud-dappled day. The soldier disappears below a crowd of people. A woman in a black fur coat pinches his nose and kisses his mouth. Another soldier all in green pushes at his chest. A woman in blue and another man crouch at his head and tell him he is not alone, he is loved, his family loves him. Someone weeps. Someone scans the street for the first man, feet planted, fists clenched, afraid but vigilant.

               This is _wrong_. She rides laughing and caroling with her sisters to battlefields and calls half the valourous slain to Valhalla, where she brings them cups of mead and spars with them to keep ready for Ragnarok. A single warrior standing ceremonial guard, cut down by a coward in a place of peace… this is not something she knows. After all this time, something new at last. She finds it brings her no joy. Her horse’s hooves ring clearly against the loud sounds of bugling chariots, of shouting. She raises her voice to sing, and keens, and her horse makes its way up the steps, towards —

               _There._ Where the soldier is waiting, next to the knot of people pushing futilely at the meat he no longer inhabits. He is listening to the steady stream of _we love you, you are loved, you are brave and good_ , _your mother and father are so proud,_ but absently. His eyes are on the bronze soldiers he was guarding, though no weapon short of a forgeflame could hurt them. She dismounts to stand beside him, and regards the statue, trying to see it as he does.

               Below their feet are the dates _1914-1918_.

               “Oh,” says the soldier, and turns his head to look up at her. “I… I don’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t you.”

               “My duty is to honour the dead,” she says. “There is singing, and mead, and all things brave.”

               “Da da da DA daaaaa,” he sings, then laughs, then becomes solemn. He nods towards the dates. “Were you there?” he asks.

               “No,” says the Valkyrie. “There was very little glory in that war. Waste. Sorrow. Muck.”

               “Then why are you here?”

               “Where is this?”

              “It’s… what’s the place where you… Valhalla. Not the same as Valhalla, but it’s where we honour our fallen soldiers.”

               “Ah.” She understands. “You do honour to your dead.”

               “Yes. We stand here to remember.”

               “Then it is meet that I am here, I think. My purpose is to honour the brave fallen in battle.”

               “This wasn’t a battle.”

               “No?” She gently takes his shoulder and turns him away from the statue, towards —

               _“There,”_ she says. “See how they fight to keep breath in you. The man who slew you was alone, and he is gone, but they do not know that. They are brave. You did honour to the dead. You are worthy of their courage, and you were honourable, you were courageous, and you fell.”

               She mounts her horse. She feels better. There is no glory in the death today, but there is valour nonetheless. She opens her mouth and sings, a high pure note. It rings gladly through the frantic noise of the fight.

               She extends a hand. The soldier takes it, and she swings him up behind her. He sits straight and, looking at the people on the ground where he fell, brings his fingers crisply to his temple. There is a sound like a bell, and the Valkyrie and the soldier are gone.

               In the buildings with the burning water, the young man is slain by an older man. The older man has never killed anyone before. No Valkyrie appears to see it, but the older man weeps anyway.

**Author's Note:**

> The unnamed soldier has a name. He's Nathan Cirillo, who was shot by a lone gunman (who later made it into Parliament and was shot by the Sergeant-at-Arms) while he was standing guard at the National War Memorial, a sculpture named "The Response" by the artist. [Strangers with no way of knowing they were safe performed CPR](http://i.imgur.com/L8DHPcT.jpg) (that's a photograph) and [tried to comfort him](http://www.macleans.ca/news/canada/i-will-never-forget-him/), and an editorial cartoon [showing the soldiers in the sculpture returning the favour](http://i.embed.ly/1/display/resize?key=1e6a1a1efdb011df84894040444cdc60&url=http%3A%2F%2Fpbs.twimg.com%2Fmedia%2FB0odGiqIEAE0EYs.jpg) won several awards that year.
> 
> I figured he'd earned his place in Valhalla, and so did Patrice Vincent, who'd died the day before in a related incident in St-Jean-sur-Richelieu.


End file.
